The Virginia War, Ense Petit Placidum
by Mad Minute
Summary: In the Periphery's Cavaretta Expanse, a bitter war rages between the USR and the Principality of Gehenna... and a band of newcomers will find themselves compelled to choose a side....
1. Buenos Aires nightlife

**DISCLAIMER:** The Classic BattleTech universe and elements therefrom are the IP of FanPro; they are used without consent, intent to profit by said use, or with any claim to their ownership. Similarly, future sections will include references and characters from other CBT authors, both fanfic and canon; use of these characters and references are similarly non-sanctioned and without intent to profit. I just want to tell a story and entertain folks. ;)  
That said, most of the characters, places and other elements in this story are my own creations and may not be re-used without notification or permission.  
Also, please be aware that this story takes place in an 'undeveloped' region of the Periphery which has its own history and certain technological differences from the mainline CBT universe.

* * *

_  
Manus haec inimica tyrannis ense petit placidam sub libertate quietam  
_("This hand of mine, which is hostile to tyrants, seeks by the sword peace and liberty.") 

_– Massachusetts state motto, c.1776_

* * *

**_  
NUEVO BUENOS AIRES, ENSENADA  
August 9, 2827, Terran Reckoning_**

It's a cool night – meaning that the thermometers are 'only' flirting with twenty degrees Celsius. The street-lights were shot out days ago – nobody with any sense wants to leave the damned spics any freebies – so the band of seven men in olive uniforms making their way towards what used to be a book-store have to do it by moonlight and soft footwork. Only the point-man's got his weapon ready: the others are moving in three pairs, each pair carrying a munitions crate between them.

_Braaaaaaapp!_

All seven men hit the pavement; the lead man's clutching his throat and choking on blood. There's a _guerrillero_ leaning out a second-floor window across the street, unloading a Xia-27 at them; the sub-gun's muzzle-blast lights up the entire façade. Some of the others unsling their rifles to return fire, but the Ensie's long gone by the time they clear for action - all the rounds connect with is concrete and sign-fronts. He could be planning to do it again at some other shop-front or street-corner. He might not come back at all.

One of the survivors glances at the fellow who _was_ on the other end of his crate; _now_, he's lying flat on his back with a bloody crater where his left eye used to be. "_Dio mio_," he mutters sickly.

"'Welcome to historic Buenos Aires, gateway to Ensenada'," another quotes at him sourly, having been on-world a little longer. "'We hope you enjoy your visit.'"

A third has been checking on the point-man, but could do nothing for him. "Yeah, kid, you're gonna love tha 'Nada – for-fuckin'-_ever_."

"Hey, let's keep movin', huh?" puts in a fourth, waving one hand towards their destination. "Let's get inside before –"

Part of his head comes off, and all of them are already on the ground when the _krack!_ reaches their ears.

The sickly lad winces as he takes another lesson to heart: pointing in a sniper-rich environment invokes Darwin. "Everybody stay down!" he hisses. "I guess we're gonna have to crawl from here. Drag those crates behind you."

"Who put you in charge, rookie?"

"His Grace _il Duce di Soren_," is the caustic retort. "Or d'you wanna stay _here_?"

"Oh, _fuck_ the crates – let's just get _ourselves_ there!"

"They'll just make us come back for 'em," the lad points out. "You wanna do this shit _again_? Maybe in _daylight_?"

The complainer gives him a glare that's lost in the darkness and starts shuffling along the pavement on hands and knees, dragging his crate by one rope carry-loop, making a quarter-metre with each yank and cursing this whole fucked-up war under every breath.

It takes them almost half an hour to cover the last block; there's actually a sandbagged revetment around the entrance that gives them cover for the last stretch. They're met at the opening to the sandbags by two Soren _Landsers_; unlike the newcomers, they're unshaven and hollow-eyed, their uniforms faded and battered. "Resupply, huh?" snarks one. "Nice of 'em to remember we actually _need_ ammo."

"Ammo _and_ replacements," the young lad tells him.

"_Four_ replacements – for the whole _company_?"

"We started with _nine_," the new arrival notes sourly. "Be glad for what you get."

"The fuckin' _wops_ get all their resupplies in armoured carriers," the other Landser bitches, helping one of the other newcomers haul a crate inside. "Must be really fuckin' nice to get all of your replacements and ammo without the fuckin' spics cuttin' 'em to shreds before they get to you."

"I'll file a complaint," is the sardonic rejoinder. "Where's the guy in charge?"

"Back there," the first _Landser_ says, jerking a thumb towards the staff-room. "Welcome to the shit, kid."

- - - - -

Acting-Sergeant Bauer's working on I-rat neotuna-and-noodles, wistfully remembering the venison stew he had on his last night on Soren. He looks up at the sound of footsteps, assessing the newcomer as he comes through the doorway.

The newcomer's maybe twenty, with the stocky build and olive skin of Salernan extraction. Like every other member of 3 Company, he's wearing a ballistic-nylon flak-vest and steel-pot helmet – the kind of body-armour issued to most GCC colonial and conscript troopers: old, heavy, cheap... and close to useless. He blinks at seeing Bauer. "Uhh... I thought Captain Petrelli was running Three Company?"

"He was... until he decided to use his oh-so-fancy night-vision-binos an hour ago," Bauer shrugs, setting down his 'chewing-exercise, canned'. "The snipers don't like that: he's in the store-room with a tag in his teeth. Who're you?"

The kid groans something to himself, then turns a crooked smile on the blond non-com and shifts his vest; two stars run up the front of his over-the-shoulder service/rank-strip. "_Tenente_ Antonio Ferretti. I was supposed to take over 'A' platoon."

Bauer snorts a laugh. "Sounds like you've been in charge since before you got here, sir," he drawls... then cocks his head. "Wait – 'Ferretti'?"

"Yes. And yes – _those_ Ferrettis," the kid nods.

_Oh, that's just GREAT, isn't it?_ Bauer realises. He's about to snap to his feet, but Ferretti waves him back before he can move. His eyes flash to the newcomer's belt, looking for something that should be there but isn't.

"I left my sidearm back at the depot – figured the snipers don't need the help." Ferretti shucks off his helmet and rifle to sit down, setting the former on the table and the latter against the side of his chair. "Learned how true _that_ was on the way here. Christ, they told me this area was off the line, and we _still_ lost five men getting here! Is it _always_ that bad?"

"Yeah, that's about usual," Bauer nods, not letting his thoughts show. _What the hell kind of Salernan officer comes to his duty-post with a friggin' _resupply run_ instead of in a damned APC? I mean, he just_ saw_ how many guys get killed that way!_ "It's funny how many of the local 'barbarians' resent our being here. You'd almost think they didn't _want_ to be 'administered' by 'their rightful landlords'."

Ferretti gives him a level look. "You might not want to say things like that where anyone else can hear you, Sergeant. The penal units are _always_ looking for more bodies, and I don't yet know how much I may need you."

"But you're not going to say anything?"

"I don't yet know how much I may need you," the officer repeats evenly.

"That's a true comfort to hear, _Herr Leutnant_."

"Now that we're finished with the macho posturing, what's the company's status?"

"I don't know that 'company' is the right word, sir," Bauer snorts. "Not counting however many came with you, we've got seventy-one men in three platoons – and with you, _one_ officer."

Ferretti winces. Authorised strength for an infantry company is four platoons, totaling eleven officers and a hundred and twenty-seven men, plus five 'supernumerary auxiliaries'. "No Royal Commissioners?"

"Some _guerrillero_ tossed a potato-masher through the last one's window three days ago – they've got a real hard-on about killing Commissioners."

"Uh-huh," the lieutenant says neutrally. He's already seen enough to know that when it comes to Commissioners getting fragged, there are _guerrilleros_ and _'guerrilleros'_. "How are things looking otherwise?"

"Not counting whatever you brought with you, each of us is down to three spare mags, a day's rations and one canteen. We'd be worse-off –"

"Only being at 'decreased strength' means a company-issue goes further, especially if you scrounge leftovers off guys who don't need 'em anymore," Ferretti nods. "Any chance of further resupply?"

That prompts a bitter laugh. "For a colonial unit of Soren 'ferals', sir? Unless you're planning to trade on your name, I wouldn't bet on it."

"We'll see. Where's the comm. room? I need to make a call."

- - - - -

**_ELEVEN KLICKS NORTH OF NUEVO BUENOS AIRES  
That same time  
"Firebat-Black-01" (_Hurón_-class BattleMech)  
Command 'Mech, F Coy/432nd Hussar Battalion_**

"Okay, you lot, this is the place," Captain Beatrice "Hammer" Kuznetsov declares over the company comm-laser 'net. "Everybody find a decent possie and go to EmCon, in case the 'Cadians are running early."

With that, she works her HOTAS controls for a moment, putting most of her Hurón's systems into standby. She leaves on her neurohelmet, but runs a finger down the zip-closure of her coolant-suit and tugs it open a little to let her skin breathe. Even with its comfort-lining, and the 'thermal mass' tucked into the cockpit's floor running fresh coolant through the meshwork of tubing in its underlayer, a Union MechWarrior's combat coverall is still in essence an insulated body-glove, which means it can get a 'little' sticky – especially on Ensenada.

_Speaking of which..._ Kuznetsov leans back in her command-couch and speaks in weary tones, hoping to pre-empt the resumption of an old discussion. "_No_, Olivia! I am _not_ going into business with you after the war!"

In her 'operator's seat' behind the pilot, her Ensenadan CSO makes a rude noise. "I'm tellin' you, Hammer: the only way you could make money faster would be to print the stuff yourself!"

"You'd know," Hammer murmurs. Warrant Officer de'Rio is one-point-seven metres tall and has the dark-olive complexion and black hair of most Ensenadans, piercing green eyes... and a 'sex-bomb' yield in the megaton range. As many of the men (and not a few women) within ten light-years can attest, since the last magazine-pictorials and trid-discs she appeared in before enlisting sold half a million units _in just the first week of pre-order._ "I don't really see myself doing too well in the media, Succubus, let alone that genre: I get stage-fright just talking to the Colonel, and that's when I'm _fully dressed_."

Her Gal-in-Back laughs. "It's not like you're doing Shakespeare, boss-_chica_. Hell, in most of the stuff I did after I founded Bliss Productions, all I used for a storyboard was 'point the camera and enjoy the show'. And in case you hadn't noticed? Tall, well-built blonde women are kind'a in short supply in Massachusetts' industry, bio-sculpt notwithstanding. Trust me: with my people representing you, you wouldn't have to get out of bed for less than two thousand marks an _hour_."

"Or get _into_ bed, as the case may be." Hammer sighs a helpless laugh. "And that reminds me: how the _hell_ did you con the EDF into letting you do '_Candid Seductions VI'_ in EDF uniform, on EDF installations – with fellow servicemen as most of your co-stars?"

"Pitched it to 'em on the basis of maintaining force morale, boss – and I thought you said you didn't _see_ '_Seductions Six'_?" Succubus adds blandly. "You remember how enlistment enquiries spiked three points in the first two hours after they announced I'd signed up? Same thing. Plus I cut 'em a 'serviceman's discount', let 'em divert half the net royalties into Survivors' Benefits."

"Huh." Hammer shakes her head in wonderment. _Ah, the absurdities of war. What twist of cosmic and/or military humour saw_ her_ assigned as my Combat Systems Operator?_ "Y'know, Olivia, I've always wanted to ask this, but I never wanted to give you the satisfaction –"

"Why'd I enlist? Hell, boss, most people ask me that inside the first _hour_. Believe me: you're ahead of the game."

"That's not an answer."

"No, it's not." A sigh. "You want the real reason, boss? And this doesn't go any further, okay?"

"Of course – my word on it."

"I always planned to enlist."

"Uhh... say again, Seize-oh? You're coming in broken."

Another sigh. "Ma'am, I was ten when they invaded Highside. My uncle worked for a suborbital cargo/passenger business centred on this old, beaten-to-hell Mark Nine shuttle –"

"My God – he was at the Newport evacuation?" _More than half a million Union military personnel and three hundred thousand dependents and civilians – one of them being a fourteen-year-old Beatrice Taylor-now-Kuznetsov – all lifted out of the Newport space-facility, on everything from military 'Mech-transports down to private prospecting shuttles._

"Yes, ma'am. And I was with him – stowed away so I could go on my first interstellar trip. I picked a hell of a time to do it, huh?"

"... I'm having a hard time picturing you as a ten-year-old, Olivia."

"Yeah, well, I didn't stay a kid too long. They didn't find me until after _San Antonio_ had jumped, so they put me out into the boat-bay gallery." Behind her pilot's head, Succubus half-smiles at the memory. "I wouldn't leave, just kept watching all the shuttles coming and going: greatest show I'd ever seen... Uncle Paolo offloaded a hundred and three people after their first round trip: Highsiders, Svobodans and Ensenadans from First Expeditionary, a bunch of civvies – even a few expatriate Sorens." The smile fades suddenly. "They made two more trips; twenty minutes after they leave for their third run, a shuttle's just pulling through the airlock when there's this... _flash_, and the whole friggin' boat-bay just comes apart. I look back through the observation window, and there's this young Highsider soldier clinging to the other side, must've been thrown there by the blast. Red-head, brown eyes, freckles, couldn't've been more than twenty; there was blood on her tunic and this... this horrified look in her eyes. Next second, she's gone – the whole bay blows out to space, and she goes with the rest of the 'loose debris'."

de'Rio takes a ragged breath. "Couple'a years later, Uncle Julio told me that it was a fighter off one of those PoG carrier-corvettes. Anyway, once we got home again, I, uh, I just couldn't let it go – wanted to know why it all happened, why the Imperium invaded Highside..."

_Why that girl had to die in front of ten-year-old-you,_ Hammer nods silently. _Not that there always_ is_ a 'why' for things like that...  
_  
"I read up on the Salernans and how they'd 'rationalise' our civilisation if they took us. Didn't like what I read too much, so I decided to do whatever I could to stop 'em – or at least make 'em pay cash for the privilege. They started invading Ensenada during my first year of high school, and that kind'a made up my mind: I decided I'd enlist as soon as I'd made sure my family would be taken care of if I got zapped. Saw an ad for a casting agency that week, went to talk to 'em when I turned sixteen. Fast forward six years and a very successful career –"

"Of which you clearly hated every _minute!"_ is the droll response. _Sounds like she almost crashed and burned on that little memory-trip: bring it back, keep it light...  
_  
"Boss, I got to fly all over the system to beautiful and exotic locations where I was paid absurd amounts of money to get boned brainless by gorgeous people. It was _torture of the worst kind_," de'Rio smirks. "Not to mention a great big 'FUCK YOU VERY MUCH' to those feudo-fascist bastards who'd deny me any choice about who I do, or when, where or how I do 'em."

"And once your family's financial future was secure, you retired – mostly – and signed on the dotted line to shove it right up the Royalists." Hammer sits back a little. She's known Succubus for almost eighteen months – they trained together, as all Union 'Mech-crews do – but for the first time, she almost feels like she actually _understands_ her notorious CSO. "I just hope your accountant's on the ball – I'd hate to see you go broke while you're out here givin' it to the PoGs the way they wish they could give it to you."

"How's that, ma'am?" Succubus blinks. "What was that about my accountant?"

"Things like... those royalties you're donating from '_Seductions Six'_: you're paying your taxes on those, right?"

"Why would I need to pay taxes on 'em, ma'am? It's not like I'm _keeping_ the money!"

"Yeah, but it's still technically 'income' before you donate it, right? You might want to check with the _Ministerio de Renta Interna_ about things like that, so there aren't any misunderstandings."

"_Sangre de Diablo_," Succubus murmurs. _I never even_ thought_ of that!_ "I'll, uh... I think I'll make a call when we get back to Brigade." A moment passes as she rolls that around her head. "Y'know, that kind'a thinking just makes me want on the payroll even _more_, boss. Hell, even if you don't go into the 'active' side of things, it sounds like you'd make a pretty good personal assistant."

Another long-suffering sigh. "Succubus, will you friggin' _drop it_? Cripes, one word about this to Pyotr and he'll go _apeshit_!"

"Don't be so sure, ma'am. Svoboda's got half Ensenada's population, but it generates fifty-six percent of my business, especially the repeat customers. The Svobies act all prim and proper and too uptight for their own good –"

"Not this one and not with me," Hammer murmurs without thinking – then hastily adds, "and that's as much as I'm _ever_ saying, clear?"

"Strength Five, ma'am," Succubus agrees piously; her pilot can't see the sly grin. She's about to speak again when her MFCD lights up. "Heads-up, boss-_chica_, I'm getting a relay from the crunchies over the fibre. Five – check that, six contacts, following the anticipated route at a... thirty-klick ground-speed. Computer's running IR and seismic-tremor profiles against the warbook... high-confidence of contact with six _Morningstar_-series BattleMechs. Looks like the patrol, all right – and they're even three minutes early!"

"That's _their_ bad luck," Hammer shrugs, smiling fiercely. Her left thumb keys the company 'push'. "Firebat-Niner to all Firebats: our trade is here, everyone. Engage as briefed, and –"

"Ma'am, you might want to re-think that."

"Firebats, wait one. What is it, CSO?"

"The feed I'm getting from the 'Suits is... ma'am, these are _Morningstars_, all right, but they're not any mark I recognise."

Succubus slugs the feed onto her pilot's secondary display; Hammer sees the differences immediately and her eyes narrow. _Well, Jesus H. bloody Christ. Two hundred years of constructing three established series of Morningstars without a hint of deviation or innovation, and the damned Gehennans have to pick_ now_ to get creative?_ "Slug it to the company, too, Olivia. Assessment?" _'Cause Gawd knows_ I'm_ having a hard time working out what I'm looking at..._

"Markings look like 9th Salernan Field Army, ma'am." Both women wince at that: Salernans are always hard bastards, and the 9th trebly so – even though their off-battlefield conduct is a perfect illustration of why the Gehennans mustn't win the war. "These are a new model of _Morningstar_, ma'am; I'm putting them into the warbook as _Morningstar-Foxtrots_, designating contacts as _Foxtrots_ One through Six. It almost looks like the body of a _Morningstar-Delta_, their knock-off of the _Warhammer-Six-Romeo_, but they've got the arms of _Morningstar-Charlies_, hands and all. Funny – there isn't much visible armament, just a couple of laser-emitters in each side-torso and Hatchet four-packs on each forearm. The upper-chest on either side looks like it might hold snap-open missile-hatches, though, like the SLDF's _Archer-Two-Romeo_ has. I don't know that a missile-duel's going to go our way, ma'am."

_New models with guesstimated capabilities. Charming. On the other hand, there _are_ sixteen of us (plus the crunchies) against _six_ of them, we have surprise... and the best way to evaluate these things is to see how they handle in combat,_ Hammer judges. "Prepare a burst to Brigade and send it when we break cover: 'Engaging six Morningstars of previously unknown type, provisionally designated _Foxtrot_ series. Requesting reinforcements and Section 9 team ASAP.'" _Even if the PoGs manage to reclaim the wrecks when we're done dropping 'em, just twenty minutes with the hulks and the Ghosts will have complete downloads of all their technical data._ "Firebats, this is Firebat Niner; same fire-plan applies. Gold One, designate _Foxtrot-_One for missile-fire on my order, Gold Two will sparkle _Foxtrot-_Six." Even as she speaks, her fingers are 'playing the piccolo' again, once again checking the company's datalink-feeds to be sure all of her 'Mechs have things under control. "Heat 'em up and let's go."

Hammer's engagement plan makes maximum use of the Union's traditional advantage in missile range, seeker-technology and throw-weight; with its point-man and tail-end Charlie marked for a barrage of missiles to be launched over the intervening ridgeline, the Salernan force will be rocked and shocked – easy pickings, even for the lighter _Hurón_s.

"Gold elements, start the music... Firebats, _engage_!" Hammer barks, and thumbs the 'pickle'.

The _Hurón_'s missile-rack is mounted on its right shoulder, above and behind the cockpit, much like that of the _Griffin-One-November_ or _Wolverine-Six-Romeo_ which lent so much to the Ensenadan machine's design. When Hammer hits the Big Red Switch, the launch-tubes' front-and-back weather-covers snap open and three MTM/15A 'Javelin' missiles screech down-range, trailing flame and smoke in their wake. All fifteen of her fellow _Hurón_ pilots are doing much the same as she, and even with the inevitable misfires – for which the crew-chiefs for Red-02, White-03, and Blue-01 will later undergo thorough ass-chewings – forty-five ripple-fired Javelin-As arch over the ridge into the valley below, homing on the laser-dots held on their two targets by the power-suit platoon attached to the company for this operation.

Succubus watches the camera-feeds from the 'Suit-infantry, ready to carry out BDA from the missile-strike... and witnesses the exact moment that the plan comes unglued.

As the Union missiles crest the ridgeline, the upper-chests of all six Salernan 'Mechs snap open almost simultaneously, revealing their own missile-launchers. Succubus feels a split-second of pleasure at being proven right – before all of those torso-mounts flare with missile-launches. And not the expected single launches, either, but 'ripple-twos' of their own!

The night sky in the valley is strobe-lit by a brief, intense, and deceptively beautiful fireworks display: Gehennan missiles screech up to meet Ensenadan, detonating almost as they clear the tubes and flinging shotgun-blasts of shrapnel through the air that rake Javelins from the sky by twos and threes. Point-defence guns mounted in the _Foxtrots_' heads swat down even more of the Union weapons.

They don't come through the missile-storm unscathed, of course – no defence can ever be perfect – but a barrage meant to generate massive overkill lands only seven hits on their two targets. _Foxtrot-_One staggers under three hits across its upper half, shedding shards of shattered armour like a dog shaking off water, but somehow remains upright. _Foxtrot-_Six's pilot has worse luck; the leading pair of Javelins blows off the right leg just below the hip. Even as the pilot ejects, the remaining two missiles strike home against the left-shoulder and right-wrist missile-launchers; in an eyeblink, secondary explosions virtually disintegrate the seventy-ton BattleMech.

"Dammit!" Hammer snarls. _We should've nailed 'em _both_ cleanly with all that! Where the hell'd they come up with _that_ trick? Clever – and you know how short of missiles _Hurón_s are, don't'cha, ya bastards?_ "Everybody save your missiles for backshots! Red Section, Black Section, we'll engage by wing-elements – thump-and-jump, no slugfests! Blue Section, move to Waypoint IVY and keep 'em penned in; White Section, waypoint LILY."

A moment later, with Second and Third Platoons moving to block the roadway east and west, the remaining eight _Hurón_s kick in their jump-jets and settle on the other side of the ridgeline, looking down on the heavier machines. With their attackers now in the open, the Gehennans are more than eager to start handing out punishment, even so outnumbered. Each _Foxtrot_s' shoulder-launchers flare again, but this time the rippled-missiles are aimed at the interlopers themselves. Sophisticated ECM and their own point-defence guns do their best to decoy or destroy the inbounds, but for the first time in the war, _Union_ forces are the ones facing 'broadsides'.

Nonetheless, they're still fairly lucky: the Salernans aren't concentrating their fire, and of the twenty Hatchets fired, only three connect. Heavy warheads detonate against Black-02, blasting patches of armour from the _Hurón_'s right flank and leg; W.O. Faraday's well-trained, and easily rides out the hits to stay standing. The other scores a crater into the armoured 'sternum' of Sub-Lieutenant daSouza's Red-04 – the _Hurón_ barely wavers.

_New design or not, it looks like they're still wrapped up in that whole 'knights in laminar armour' routine,_ Hammer muses, replying to the Salernan barrage with a pulse from Black-01's ninety-millimetre laser. The Union troopers have no such delusions of battlefield 'honour', and all of their own fire is concentrated on _Foxtrot-_One. The actinic-red after-images of Union laser-fire pound the point-'Mech, and it reels as chunks of armour explode on its right thigh and all across its torso; Hammer can almost swear that one of those beams plunges right _through_ the 'Mech's heavily-armoured 'breastbone'. An instant later, gouts of smoke and flame burst through _Foxtrot-_One's every opening and seam – including the cockpit. There's no 'chute from _this_ kill. _Must've touched off the PDGS-magazine. Heh – that's _two_ down. If we can keep the range open, we should –_

"Vulture, vulture, vulture!" Succubus sings out. "Enemy fighters inbound from the west, boss, they're angling for the heights!"

_Jeezus – _they_ got here quickly!_ "All 'Mechs, clear the ridgeline, _now_! Get amongst 'em so the fighters won't have clean targets!"

"You sure that's a good idea, boss?"

"I _know_ it _isn't_ – but it's about the only one going with fighters overhead! Call battalion and get _us_ some air-cover, dammit!"

The main party's eight _Hurón_s start bounding down the hillside on their jumpjets, ducking and weaving mostly-randomly to throw off Gehennan gunners both ground-bound and aerial. They barely make it in time: the wing-pair of _Leones_ strafes the heights just as the last Hurón clears the area, sending massive lines of earth exploding skywards and leaving half-slagged furrows in their wake. Red-03 ripples three Javelins after them even as the EDF machines send more energy-fire lashing down on the Salernan 'Mechs; two of the missiles find the trailer's left wing and all but amputate it, sending the bat-winged machine tumbling into a hillside.

But miss or hit, those fighters accomplished at least _one_ thing: forcing the EDF 'Mechs to close the range to where the Salernans can engage them more effectively.

Across the company, three _Hurón_'s threat-receivers light up with 'sparkle' warnings, and the _Morningstars_ cut loose with full broadsides – ripple-twos from the body-launchers, and single shots from the wrist-mounts. Each targeted EDF 'Mech now has to deal with _six_ missiles – and the things are guiding on the laser-dots, ignoring evasive manoeuvres!

Martinez' Red-02 is caught mid-landing and takes four hits in less than a second; the _Hurón_ stumbles and drops flat on its 'face', smoke streaming from its shattered head and canopy. Lieutenant Villalobos' Red-01 somehow weaves between three missiles as it lands from its jump, almost casually guns two more from the sky, and all but ignores the single hit which scores the armour over its midriff. Faraday has a little more trouble keeping his balance when three more Hatchets slam into Black-02 in mid-air, but keeps his feet when he lands and even manages to return fire. The only one of the four _Hurón_s not 'sparkled' by the Salernan pilots, daSouza's Red-04, has a far easier time evading the Hatchets aimed his way, and his PDGS explodes the only weapon which might have connected.

Meanwhile, _Foxtrot-_Three jolts and staggers under a succession of laser-hits – five in all. Armour on its body and left limbs flakes away in sheets, but nothing penetrates to cause serious harm.

"What the - semi-active seekers?" Hammer marvels bitterly. _This is getting better by the _minute! "Olivia, how's Martinez?"

"Telemetry lost, boss," her CSO says simply – really meaning 'they're dead', and both of them know it – then adds "_¡Merda!_" as her master tactical display lights up with a rash of fresh red icons. "Three Platoon's got more _'Stars_ coming from the west, boss!"

"Execute Curtain-3." _Let's see if the new guys will fight in the rain..._

Succubus punches a key. Nineteen kilometres to the east, an EDF 'mini-fortress' – part of the interlocking network of fortifications defending Nuevo Buenos Aires – receives the burst transmission and trains out three of its eighteen secondary turrets. Within seconds, all six of those 150mm rifles are thundering, each one flinging thirty-kilo shells downrange as fast as the magazines can serve them.

The Firebats are just entering proper thump-and-jump ranges from the invaders' 'Mechs when the first salvo of 150s lands to screen their west flank, and things get... _busy_ right about then.

_- - - - -_

Almost half an hour later, Hammer and Succubus lean back in their command-couches and sip from packets of electrolyte-laced sports-drink as they watches the Section 9 types dismount from their vertol. Neither really wants to linger here much longer – indeed, they've already stayed far too long – but once they made the call about 'new types', it was a given that the cyber-warfare weenies would want to inspect any such wrecks they might down reasonably intact and do a full data-rip on them, which meant having to hold onto said wrecks and the place where they fell. _And_ nobody_ ever said the job was_ safe_, now did they?_ Hammer notes dryly.

There are six of them in all: four humans in the field-grey uniforms of Fleet Intelligence, and perhaps the most valuable of their number, two field-grey robotic spiders the size of a sub-sub-compact hovercar. Succubus notices something painted on the side of one's abdomen, pulls up a zoom-view, and snorts in weary amusement. In a fashion borrowed from its human comrades and now popular amongst its kind, the cybernetic sentience has splashed out on some personally-distinguishing side-art for the benefit of its 'wetware' comrades: under the stenciled '316' of its personal bort number, there's a black disc adorned with, of all things, a grinning chrome skull with flaming red eyes. (She makes a note to ask what it means, if she ever gets the chance, but doubts she'd truly understand the answer; she _likes_ the 'guys', of course, but they _do_ tend to be rather... 'opaque', since much of their cultural lexicon stems from their near-obsession with recordings produced in the first century of broadcast media.)

"They should find something useful," Succubus muses. "They usually do."

"Here's hoping," Hammer sighs, glancing into the side-panel that holds her field-rations. _Nope: still not quite_ that_ hungry. Especially since we'll be back at base in an hour or so anyway._ "That counter-missile trick's gonna be a bitch to beat."

Succubus winces. Hammer's right – and since the EDF's 'Mech forces are equipped almost exclusively with Huróns, whose long-range firepower stems from their Javelin batteries... _If they get that set-up fully deployed before we can work up a counter, we are_ so friggin' boned...


	2. Welcome to the party, pal!

_**PIRATE JUMP-POINT, 'WAYPOINT BARBADOS'  
**_**_SLS _Bismark (Texas_-class battleship)  
_**_**August 10, 2827**_

This is the third 'command-staff conference' in as many days since the convoy arrived at 'Waypoint Barbados'.

Those involved in the discussions have not found them especially heartening.

"I'm starting to think we could've picked a better destination, ma'am," is 'Commodore' Sebastian Hennesy's sardonic murmur. "I hear Kowloon's nice and welcoming to outsiders."

"With the SLDF's history there?" his superior counters skeptically. "With _our_ history there?"

"Compared to the Cavaretta Expanse? That'd be like being met with a parade, ma'am," Hennesy snorts. "Have you _seen_ the latest SigInt abstracts? This place is friggin' _crawling_ with settled worlds – and the Massachusetts system sure as hell is _not_ the 'derelict fleet-maintenance depot' we were led to believe it is. And the other guys, these 'Gehennans'? At least all the friggin' 'Loonies'll do is shoot or lynch you!"

'General' Trish Ebon nods slowly; he's not especially wrong. The Expanse is _alive_ with the RF traffic of inhabited worlds, and even with the light-speed delay meaning that the majority of those radio and three-vee signals are years or even decades old by the time they reach 'Waypoint Barbados', their contents are often... disturbing, to say the least. _Kowloon has never forgotten nor forgiven the 331st's part in the 2729 Revolt – not that I can blame them; it wasn't exactly the Division's proudest moment,_ she concedes. She's spent much of their four-year journey studying the divisional archives of their forebear formation. _But Baz is right: compared to the sort of trouble we could be buying into simply by _being_ here, Kowloon would be a damned cocktail party. Hell, we'd probably get a friendlier welcome if we returned to the _Clans!

She's about to respond when Hennesy's wrist-com chimes with a priority-one alert. "Yes?" he demands brusquely, irritated that they're being interrupted in spite of clear orders to the contrary.

"Sir, you and Kh- you and _General_ Ebon need to get up here ASAP: we've got an emergence flare forming less than fifty klicks off the _Fidelity_'s starboard beam."

Brantley's eyes flick to his commander, who nods as she shares the thought: all of their convoy arrived four days ago, so it can't be one of their own. "On our way," he acknowledges, keying the comm. off again. This time, the glance/thought he shares with his boss is accompanied by a brief, thin, humourless smile.

_Like it or not, it looks like we're committed now..._

- - - - -

**_PIRATE JUMP-POINT, GENOA STAR-SYSTEM  
_**_**TQF-927M5G  
**__**August 10, 2827**_

_Jump completed. EMP clearing. Re-emergence coordinates correspond to designed position within 0.825932 kilometres, within acceptable jump deviation parameters. All weapons arrays 'locked, loaded and safed' in accordance with protocols for KF jump while at Medium Alert Status. Neutrino detector online, initiating passive scans. IR and passive-radar interference from KF-clutter will decline to negligible levels within 4.98546 seconds –_

_Contacts, close aboard!_

_Immediate Combat Alert brings all processing systems completely on-line. I traverse narrow-focus, high-sensitivity IR, radar and lidar sensors to bear, beginning rapid analysis of all incoming data as my weapons mounts expedite 'clearing for action'. Neutrino detector confirms multiple large fusion-powered vessels, and other sensor systems begin cataloguing silhouettes and comparing them against stored profiles even as they confirm multiple fire-control systems locking onto me from the unknown vessels._

_Residual EM-clutter from the KF translation diminishes to within the filtration-tolerances of my sensor software, and I initiate a full-spectrum analysis of all unknown vessels. Within 0.437 milliseconds, I match the class of the closest contact, 43.158 kilometres off my port bow, against my internal 'warbook' with 97.283 percent confidence: a _Lola-III_ destroyer. This is highly anomalous: current intelligence indicates that all extant _Lola-III_-class vessels serve in the Star League Navy, yet there has been no contact between Fleet Base Virginia and the main body of the SLDF for 60.542 years and this vessel's IFF transponder is not currently transmitting any ID at all, much less an SLDF registry code. Equally, however, intelligence does not indicate Enemy possession of such destroyers._

_This confusion is compounded 0.023 milliseconds later when closer examination of lidar hull-maps indicates substantial damage to this vessel over along the vessel's visible starboard side, damage that has undergone only the most basic of field-repairs. Massive sections of armour have been torn from the hull by weapons-fire, multiple sensor arrays are non-functional, three turrets are shattered ruins, and a fourth appears frozen in position, an indication of catastrophic failure of its training gear. Historical protocols and all operational guidelines indicate that a SLDF commander would immediately withdraw so crippled a vessel from operational status and dispatch it for repairs unless prevented by orders from higher authority or operational/tactical concerns, yet this vessel apparently remains in service. IR and RF activity confirm that the destroyer is bringing her remaining weapons and fire-directors on-line; I calculate an 88.648 chance that this is a 'precautionary' alert related to the IR flare which preceded my KF-translation._

_0.015 milliseconds pass as sub-processors receive and analyse the radar/lidar profile of the next closest vessel. More confusion results: despite the absence of an IFF registry code, this contact is a 97.241 percent match against the warbook silhouette of an SLDF _McKenna_-class battleship! Again, there is evidence of heavy and unrepaired battle-damage, the most prominent being the shattered stub of the dorsal heat-transfer 'fin'. Again, despite limited capability, she is readying herself for possible combat._

_Within 3.219 milliseconds, I have classifications on all of the WarShips in this apparent task-force: another _Lola-III_ destroyer, one _Aegis_ cruiser, one _Sovietskii Soyuz_ cruiser, and one _Texas_ battleship; only the _Aegis_ and the _Texas_ do not evidence unrepaired battle-damage. There are also two _Invader_-class JumpShips, one _Tramp_-class, and one _Star Lord_-class. Every vessel that can carry DropShips is loaded to maximum capacity. Vis-light imagery confirms that all of these vessels bear the Cameron Star of the SLDF, and many are also marked with the emblem of the 331st Royal BattleMech Division, known as 'the North American Division'. This formation has never entered Fleet Base Virginia's zone of responsibility before; their last duty-post of record was on the world of Australia, near the border between the Lyran Commonwealth and the Rim Worlds Republic. However, I must admit that this information pre-dates the Amaris Broadcast and is thus significantly out of date._

_Has the Star League Defence Force successfully put down Stefan Amaris' attempted imperial coup and re-established the democratic institutions of the Star League? Are they now seeking to re-establish contact with isolated installations such as Fleet Base Virginia?_

_I fervently hope so. Without the assistance of Star League forces, the Enemy's presence on the worlds of the Union of Sovereign Republics is far too large to be reduced or reversed... yet under the final orders of the Fleet Base's last commander, neither the Base nor my Squadron can be used for offensive operations without the League's authorisation, nor can the Union expand its regular forces without losing access to the technical capabilities of the Fleet Base which have been so vital to the prior and current success of their resistance. _

There remains a 4.358 percent probability that this 'task-force' is a 'false-flag' operation, conceived and executed by Enemy agents - that the Enemy could obtain so many SLDF vessels and perpetrate such a ruse would require a string of events with exceeding low orders of probability, yet some Enemy commanders have proven sufficiently resourceful that the possibility cannot be ignored.

_Whatever the case, until these vessels identify themselves one way or the other, I will remain at Combat Alert. I activate my 'personal-interaction remote' and have it record an identification/challenge, a process that takes 23.145 seconds, then activate my own transponder, transmit the message, and await their response._

- - - - -

The individual on their screen is Caucasian, male, mid-twenties, dark-haired and dark-eyed. What gets everyone's attention is the uniform he's wearing: the white-over-purple of the Star League Navy, complete with commander's bars and the honour cords of a 'plank-owner' with six decades' service. _"Attention, unknown vessels: this is SLS _Alexander Stoykiy_. You have entered the defensive perimeter of Fleet Base Virginia. Please identify yourselves and declare your intentions."_

"What the**_ FUCK_**?" somebody blurts. 'General' Ebon stands like a statue, her face unreadable.

"Sir, uh... the computer says that there's an 85 chance that this is a modified M-5 _Caspar_ drone, and his transponder's squawking as TQF-927M5G, SLS _Alexander Stoykiy_." The sensor-tech hesitates half a second. "Sir, his fire-control is fully active and locked onto _Fidelity_, _Zug_, and _Bismark_, and his weapons are tracking to match. If he's not cleared for action, it's a bluff good enough that I don't _ever_ want to play cards with him."

"Ma'am, our archives should have some of the SLDF's _Caspar_ deactivation-codes," Hennesy suggests. None of their vessels is in much condition for a fight, but – "Besides, from all I've heard and read about Operation Liberation, the _Caspars_ were dumb as a brick."

"Maybe," Ebon says – then pushes off and crosses to the comm. console, picking up a spare headset. "But with everything else we've seen of the Expanse so far, I don't think we can take the chance."

"Ma'am?" Hennesy blinks. "What are you –?"

She ignores him, bringing up the task-force circuit. "All vessels, this is Wolverine Actual: bring up your IFF transponders in their _original_ settings. I say again, squawk IFF in original SLDF registry." She reaches down and switches channels. "_Alexander Stoykiy_, this is Acting Lieutenant-General Trish Ebon, Commanding Officer of the 331st Royal BattleMech Division, aboard SLS _Bismark_. It's been so long since the SLDF visited Virginia that we'd anticipated finding it derelict; it's something of a shock to be wrong. Can you give me a situation report?"

_"Not at this time, _Bismark_. Please authenticate Epsilon-Golf-November-Seven-Four-Hotel-Tau-Five-Niner."_

"Ah, stand-by, _Stoykiy_. As I said, we weren't expecting to be met, so we'll have to dig that out of historical records."

A pause – brief, to human perceptions. _"You've got five minutes, 'General Ebon'. If you don't give me the right codes inside three hundred seconds from my mark, I'll feed you a spread of Helldarts and get honest answers from the wreckage. Mark."_

"Ma'am, we are _definitely_ being spiked for missile-fire!"

"Get on it!" Ebon barks at the comm.-tech, who nods vigourously and starts rattling his keyboard, combing historical databases for their pre-Amaris SLDF codebooks.

"'Helldarts'?" Hennesy puzzles. "What the –?"

"Let's _not_ find out just yet, hmm?" Ebon suggests acerbically.

- - - - -

_As the count-down runs, I contemplate 'General Ebon's' transmissions. Her facial-tic responses and voice-stress levels did not indicate any attempt at deception, yet what she said is extremely peculiar. Surely she has access to SLDF records indicating that the Massachusetts star-system was home to more than a billion people at the time of the Amaris Crisis, with near-Star League standards of living, medical-care, and education? It would take a massive catastrophe to depopulate such a system, yet she actively expected to find Fleet Base Virginia a derelict station._

_Moreover, she is clearly surprised by _my_ presence. I know that Space Defence Systems were almost unheard-of outside the Terran Hegemony, yet the information available to me suggests that their installation was standard procedure for a deep-Periphery fleet base – particularly in the face of a naval power such as the Principality of Gehenna._

_Could her information truly be _that_ incomplete?_

_The count-down continues, but as seconds tick by, more and more of the convoy's vessels activate their transponders – and all of them radiate SLDF identity-codes. Indeed, the _Texas_ begins to transmit the data-code of SLS _Bismark_; the destroyers are revealed as _Yukon_ and _Undying Fidelity_; the cruisers are _Saratoga_ and _John F. Woodward_ (possibly an auspicious name for the _Sovietskii Soyuz_ to bear under the Union's current circumstances); the _McKenna_ shows as _Zughoffer Weir_. The last is a cause of momentary disquiet: the ship's service-reputation is one for daring and skill that goes far beyond that of even a 'normal' _McKenna_-class, and the possibility that her crew have inherited that traditional ferocity means that she may remain a potent force even in her current state._

_One of the more amusing aspects of the entertainment dramas humans make for each other are the 'tropes' they develop, the dramatic conventions which become a shorthand. One common trope is that count-downs to a Dreadful Doom always reach the very last second before they are averted. In this instance, 134.287 seconds remain on the count-down when _Bismark_ re-opens the comm.-circuit. _"_Alexander Stoykiy_, this is _Bismark_: I authenticate Omicron-Juliet-Kilo-Three-Eight-Tango-Sigma-Six-Zero."

- - - - -

_"Authentication confirmed. Welcome to the Genoa star-system, _Bismark_. Please state your intentions."_

"Previous intentions have been, uh, overtaken by events, _Stoykiy_." _To say the least..._ Ebon considers her next words. "We'd appreciate a current report on the situation in the Massachusetts system."

_"Fleet Base Virginia is fully operational. The rest of the system..."_ The face of _Stoykiy_'s 'captain'(?) twists ruefully. _"Frankly, ma'am, I think you'll do better hearing it from the locals than me. If you're as under-informed as you sound, you might find a full SitRep easier to credit if it comes from fellow humans."_

Ebon and Hennesy trade bemused looks once more. He... implies that he himself is _not_ human? Yet there's... _wry humour_ in his voice?

_"I _will_ say this, General: there are a lot of people in Massachusetts system that will be very, _very_ grateful to see the SLDF return."_ A half-second's pause, and a crooked smirk. _"And a lot of people who will hate the very _idea_ of you... but since most of them will be Gehennans, I think we can all take this opportunity to _not_ care."_

_That was _definitely_ humour,_ Ebon judges, massaging the headache which is building behind one temple. _Unless _Stoykiy_ is the exception which proves the rule, whoever did the post-Liberation analyses on the _Caspars_' intelligence and personality really malfed up _bad. "Uh, understood, _Stoykiy_. Be advised that we are currently recharging from our last jump and will be ready to move again in –" she glances to Hennesy, who holds up a noteputer. "– fourteen hours, that is one-four hours."

_"One-four hours to complete KF charging, confirmed. Be advised, Enemy forces hold the Massachusetts zenith and nadir points, and the safest pirate-point to jump to will be just off Virginia Base itself. With your approval, I'll calculate the jump-coordinates and transmit them to your people when the time comes. I'd also advise you not to make any aggressive moves during or after translation; the situation in Massachusetts is bad enough that the base defences and the rest of my Squadron are a little 'twitchy' these days."_


	3. Summer in the city

_**NUEVO BUENOS AIRES, ENSENADA  
**__**11 August 2827, Terran Reckoning**_

By an astrographic quirk that only one man in 3. _Kompanie_ has enough education to understand, Ensenada has a short 'year', but a 'day' that runs to thirty T-hours and change. Nonetheless, the system's sun, Massachusetts, is just starting to peek over the eastern horizon when _Tenente_ Ferretti finally emerges from the comm.-room, wearing a sour expression.

"No joy, _Herr Leutnant_?" Bauer surmises.

Ferretti's answer leads off with a growl of frustration. "You're kidding, right? God, you'd think I was asking 'em to spend their _own_ money. Roust out the leadership for an adjunct post. And have them bring our three best marksmen."

"Sir."

A few moments later, Bauer finds himself watching his now-poker-faced _Tenente_ assess three grimy Privates, two ragged-looking Corporals-Major and a weather-beaten Corporal – and trying not to curse out loud. _That Goddamned Matthias... Maybe the_ Leutnant_ won't notice..._

Silly notion, really – that'd make things too easy. "Is this everyone?" Ferretti asks.

The assembled non-officers trade uncomfortable glances. After a second or so, Bauer steps in. "_Herr Leutnant_, Privates Prutter, Raikinnen and Davies are the marksmen you wanted – Captain Petrelli assigned them all to company headquarters as his bodyguards. Liebgott has Able Platoon, Hausmann has Baker, and Tikki is Charlie's senior squad-leader. Technically, _I_ have Dog Platoon, but since I'm the only member of Dog Platoon _left_..."

"And Charlie's platoon-leader?"

"Chief Corporal-Major Matthias is manning the rooftop OP, sir," Tikki offers, just a little too quickly.

Ferretti cocks an eyebrow, but lets that go. "Well, here's the word: Battalion says they _might_ be able to get us some more resupply about midday – _if_ we can clear out that sniper from last night. They say they're short of trucks and tracks as it is, and they can't risk 'em where an observer might call artillery onto 'em."

"Which is pretty much everywhere in the fuckin' _city_," Corporal Hausmann snorts. "All you need is eyes and a 'phone – and every last spic on this goddamned _planet_ has a pocket-secretary."

"I mentioned that, and they said they weren't interested in my 'excuses'. Which brings us right back to the point: we need to sort out that sniper. That's where you three come in," Ferretti tells the trio of _Landsers_. "Last night, the shot came from the north – probably from atop the bank. He waited to zap a leadership type, so I'm guessing he won't pass up a chance at a nice, juicy officer. Prutter, you're with me: we're going to head for the rear like we're trying to get to Battalion, then cut into that mall and see if we can work up towards his nest. I'll go first - you watch my back. Raikinnen, Davies, you'll stay here and watch for the shooter while we play bait: when he shows himself, kill him."

"Sir, how's he going to tell one of us is an officer?" Prutter wonders. _And which of us is going to be the 'officer'? I've got_ enough_ ways to get killed on this friggin' planet without him turning me into deliberate sniper-bait..._

Ferretti smiles crookedly, unzipping his 'bulletproof' vest and slinging it into a corner. While all of his insignia are low-vis black, only officers wear rank-badges on their collars – and they all know that the snipers know that. Nor is he finished: tossing his steel helmet onto the discarded vest, he buckles on the Deflon 'cockroach'-style brain-bucket Captain Petrelli no longer needs, which still bears two of its three stars. (It looks like he pried off and discarded the ruined centre star, then covered the bullet-hole with a patch of olive speed-tape.) "And if _this_ doesn't do the trick, I'll ask Battalion for a neon sign saying 'please shoot me!'"

Bauer blinks in amazement. He's _going to – What the_ fuck_? All of our original Salernan officers were all about looking after their_ own_ skins!_ "You don't want to be _too_ obvious about it, _Herr Leutnant_. Maybe keep your armour on?"

"Nah, I can duck faster without it," Ferretti snorts. "It's not like it'll stop a rifle-round anyway. Let's get this done: the sooner we're finished, the sooner they can bring us some real food."

And as three slightly nonplussed privates follow their new CO towards the sandbagged front entrance, the quartet of non-coms they leave behind trade bewildered looks, sharing a single thought: _Who and WHAT the fuck IS this guy?_

_And why can't we get more officers_ like_ him!?_

- - - - -

"You two set?" Ferretti asks, checking the magazine in his G47 one last time. (He's checked it four times already, and the sharpshooters have all noticed. They all know it as a sign of nerves; that it's the _only_ such sign in his manner is... unusual.)

Raikinnen simply nods. Davies is the talkative one. "_Jawohl_, _Herr Leutnant_."

"Good. If you kill him, fine – but at least get his attention, huh?"

"We'll part his hair for you, _Herr Leutnant_," Davies drawls.

"Please do. If I get killed because you miss, my mother's going to be _terribly_ upset," Ferretti quips. "Prutter?"

It turns out that Prutter is the same profanely-opinionated _Landser_ who met Ferretti at the door when he arrived. Now, he gives the new boss a lop-sided shrug. "Ready as I'll ever be, _Herr Leutnant_."

"Okay, then." A long, deep breath... then: "_GO!_"

Both stay-behind marksmen lunge through the door and take firing-positions behind the sandbags. A half-breath later, Ferretti launches himself through the same door at a dead run, Prutter a step behind him, headed for an alley-mouth maybe thirty metres down the street.

_KRACK!_

Something yanks at Ferretti's sleeve, and he finds himself covering the last three metres in a full-stretch dive, only half-hearing the shots behind him as Raikinnen and Davies keep the sniper interested. Prutter's pressed flat against the alley wall by the time the _Tenente_ raises himself into a crouch and starts checking out the damage: not even a mark on the skin, but his tunic and blouse are both cut clean through and the shoulder-patch of 231. _Soren Infantrie-Regiment_ is missing completely – it's probably lying out in the street.

Prutter gives him a half-grin. "Now you've got somewhere to hang that Purple Sash you're bucking for, _Herr Leutnant_."

"Y'know, Prutter, for a comedian, you're a fair soldier," Ferretti returns cheerfully.

"Huh?"

Sigh. "Never mind."

The next hour or so is taken up with a nerve-wracking process of working through building after building, heads on a swivel in case there are other _guerrilleros_ about this fine morning, watching every step for trip-wires and booby-traps. Doorways and windows are regarded with particular suspicion, yet there's little choice but to use them: they don't have the explosives to blow their own entryways. (Another reason to 'thank' their logisticians, who confine such things to 'higher-priority' units; funnily enough, most of those units are Salernan or Acadian.)

Eventually, they find themselves in a shop-front across from the 'bank' – a four-storey office-block housing all manner of financial operations. The place is built like a goddamned fortress, but then so are half the buildings erected in Nuevo Buenos Aires since the Amaris Coup; the whole damned Union of Sovereign Republics knew that the Gehennans would be coming to 'reclaim their rightful ancestral holdings' once the Star League pulled in its forces.

"Uh, _Herr Leutnant_, couldn't we just call in an air-strike on that fuckin' place?"

"Have you been smoking Rosarío Red?" snorts Ferretti. "Even if we could make the call from here, there's no way in hell the pipe-jockeys are gonna do _anything_ because a _Tenente_ asked for air support. Even if they did, what d'you expect 'em to do – fly through the Ensies' air-defences and actually drop the damned bombs in the right _postal code_? Airedales're almost as useless as friggin' BattleMechs in a city-fight."

"Sir, we've been on this fuckin' planet for forty-three days, fighting in this fuckin' city for forty-one of 'em," Prutter retorts. "I have yet to see even _one_ of 'our' fuckin' 'iron knights' within ten _klicks_ of here."

"Exactly. Just like everything else in ground warfare, Prutter, this one comes right back down to us poor bloody infantry."

"'Bloody' being the main word, _Herr Leutnant_."

Ferretti grunts at that, watching the bank's greeting area and thinking deeply. "Not much for it. I can't see anyone in the foyer, but that doesn't mean they're not there – he'd be a damned idiot if he didn't have a spotter or two watching the lower floors. I'll go first: you keep your eyes open and nail anybody who sticks his head up."

"You got it, sir." _Say what you like about this wop sonofabitch, but he's got balls: he's _always_ been the first one out in the open, stars and all._ The street's barely fifteen metres wide, building-to-building – but that's still more than enough room and time for a sub-gunner to splatter the _Tenente_ all over the asphalt. Prutter takes a spot behind the counter near the store-front – it'll be interesting to hurdle that when it's his turn to run, but it's better than kneeling on all the broken glass at the displays.

Ferretti sucks in a breath and starts his sprint-for-life. Sure enough, just as he makes half-way, someone appears behind one of the teller's counters and starts swinging up a rifle of his own. Prutter swings his G47 around, fires twice; the _guerrillero_'s head snaps back, and he drops straight down.

True to their 'contract', as soon as he makes the bank's doors Ferretti waves his partner forward, trying to look in all directions at once. Prutter only slows down a little as he goes straight past, heading over to check on the _guerrillero_ he shot. One glance is enough: there's a red-rimmed hole under the Ensenadan's right eye and bloody chunks on the wall and floor. Less reassuring is the weapon he dropped – a damned _Kämpfgewehr-53_ squad automatic-rifle, complete with forty-round drum-mag and a sleek electronic sighting module. He slides over the counter to pick the thing up – and blinks in astonishment. "I'll be... hey, _Herr Leutnant_, check _this_ out!"

"What is it?" Ferretti's there in a minute and accepts the LMG as it's handed over.

"How the fuck did they get the thing so _light_? They must've knocked off almost a kilo! And what the fuck is that stock made from? It doesn't feel like wood."

"The two questions have the same answer, trooper," Ferretti muses, hefting the weapon himself. "The furniture's made out of fibreglass, like bath-tubs or those speedboats a lot of us rich-boys have. Lighter than wood, less fragile, immune to water. I heard rumours that the Highside Resistance started making them like this a couple of years after the invasion; figures it would've caught on here."

"You reckon they smuggled it in from Highside, sir?"

He's answered with an old-fashioned look, and Ferretti flips the weapon around to show the manufacturer's engravings on the receiver: they're in Ensenadan Spanish, not Highsider Welsh or Star League English. "The Ensenadans make 'em themselves, then slip 'em past us to the _guerrilleros_. Add those to the _Xia_-27's any proper machinist can make in a half-decent metalwork shop and the ammo and mags they 'obtain' from our guys alive or dead, and they're pretty well set. Straight out of the guerrilla handbook, the clever bastards," he adds thoughtfully, then shrugs it off. "It's a score for us, anyway: this semi-auto stuff is good enough for a fight out in the open country, but at times like this, you need some rock-and-roll." He casually tosses the LMG back to a startled Prutter. "Grab his ammo-drums and grenades, and let's go. We've got some walking to do – I don't think using the elevators would be too smart."

_What the fuck? A juicy piece of loot like_ this_, and he's giving it to_ me A half-moment later, Prutter shakes it off. _Ah, fuck it. No point worrying about it – Matthias'll just swipe the fuckin' thing as soon as we get back, anyway. Might as well make the most of it while I can..._

And just before they reach the fire-stairs that should take them to the roof, Ferretti does one more thing which widens Prutter's eyes: he draws his bayonet from its hip-sheath and fixes it to his G47. "Just in case," he shrugs.

They make it up two sets of stairs without incident, and the _Tenente_'s just about to step onto the landing to head for the third floor when he checks himself, smacks himself on the forehead for an idiot, and waves Prutter back against the wall, instead producing something from his breast pocket and leaning back against the doorframe to poke the thing out into the open.

"What the fuck is that, sir?"

"Elbow mirror – lets you look around corners. Figured they'd be useful for times just like this, so I bought half a dozen from my dentist just before I embarked."

_Must be nice to_ visit_ a friggin' dentist, much less buy toys like that from him!_ "Slick trick, _Herr Leutnant_. Where'd you learn that one?"

"Taurian _École Militaire_," Ferretti notes absently, his lips thinning as he spots the waiting trap. "It's right out of the urban-fighting manual for infantry."

"Fine for officers, sir," Prutter sniffs. "They never even told _us_ there _was_ a fuckin' manual for this shit – we've been making it up as we go."

Ferretti blinks at him. "What were they trying to do – get _all_ of you killed?"

Prutter doesn't use the first answer that comes to his mind - it's _guaranteed_ to get him Squadded, no matter _how_ reasonable the _Tenente_ seems. "'These worlds belong to the scions of Stefano Cavaretta', sir."

"Yeah, that's what they tell me." Ferretti's tone is distracted – maybe by the stick-frag he's pulled from his belt-sheathes, maybe not. He unscrews the safety-cap, yanks the arming-cord, then bends himself around the doorframe, sidearms the smoking potato-masher up onto the next landing, and slams the door shut again. The explosion is complex – the muffled _**bang**_ of the grenade itself, overlaid with a louder, sharper detonation that shakes dust from the ceiling-panels.

- - - - -

'_**SECTION NINE' OP-CENTRE, FORTRESS 'CASTILLIO FIVE'  
**__**OUTSKIRTS OF NUEVO BUENOS AIRES, ENSENADA**_

::Uh, Commander Kadishev? You might want to see this.::

"What is it, Joe?" Anatoliy Kadishev looks up from his never-ending paperwork into his NCOIC's primary camera-eye. He's been in Fleet Intelligence's Cyber-Warfare Section more than long enough to become intimately acquainted with Tachikomae and their emotional patterns; hearing such an _intent_ tone, especially from Chief Warrant Officer (Jo)E-0090, means whatever's going on is rather outside the norms.

::One of the _Faces of the Resistance_ live-feeds just showed something interesting, sir. We've recorded it for playback and analysis.::

Kadishev cocks an intrigued eyebrow. "Define 'interesting'."

::'Oh God, oh God, we're all gonna die'?::

_I_ really_ should have known better than to phrase it that way,_ the Svobodan sighs. _Senior or not, he_ is_ still a Tachikoma..._ "Joe -!"

Even after so long an acquaintance with their ways, Kadishev finds the sight of nine hundred kilos of cyber-spider cringing in bashful apology... a little disconcerting. ::Sorry, sir – reflex. Mister Kerrigan was gleaning the _FotR_ feeds while he waited for that _Morningstar-Foxtrot_'s software to finish decompiling, and he spotted a person of interest with the 231. _Soren Infantrie-Regiment_. He thinks it's one of the Ferretti _Famigilia_.::

Kadishev blinks - _hard_. _A Ferretti - in an_ infantry_ unit? Since when do wop aristocrats get out of their nice, safe BattleMechs?_ "You're right, that _does_ sounds interesting."

A few moments later, they're standing before the main display, with Warrant Officers Kerrigan and A-316 queuing up the relevant recording. It looks like it was taken through the 'Net-cam on some executive's desktop computer, and shows a corner office on the fourth floor. Kneeling in the corner of the office, clutching a scoped G47, is an emaciated Ensenadan girl in a threadbare blue t-shirt and denim cutoffs. There's a metal collar welded closed about her neck – and a fanatic gleam in her eye.

::"- be coming in any minute,":: she's saying, even as she jerks her head towards the window where she's made her (latest?) sniper-nest. A rolled sky-blue bandana/head-band, the mark of a _guerrillero_, is wedged into the window-frame. There's a rank of tally-marks across its brow, seventeen in all; incongruously, they've been made with peach lipstick. ::"I only wish I'd had a chance to kill _more_ of the Pog _cabróns_, but -"::

An explosion off-camera shakes the room, and the girl whirls, bringing her rifle to bear on something out of view. After a beat or two, her eyes widen again and she tries to bring her weapon around further yet, but one-two-three bullets punch through her chest before she can fire, slamming her against the wall. She gurgles for a moment, then collapses into the corner and goes utterly limp.

::"Clear!":: someone barks – it's spoken in Soren, but the feed automatically sub-titles it in Ensenadan, Svobodan, and Star League English – and there are cautious footsteps as two olive-clad GCC troopers approach behind leveled G47s of their own; one of them even has his bayonet fixed.

The taller of the Pogs, the one without his bayonet showing, kneels over the dead sniper and drags the scoped weapon out of her hands. ::"This is getting fuckin' old, _Herr Leutnant_."::

His companion also steps into view and kneels over the body, the single lateral stripe on the back of his helmet marking his status as an officer. The camera can't see his face, but his voice sounds vaguely sick. ::"Christ, Prutter, she's just a kid!"::

::"Yeah – thirteen, maybe fourteen T-years.":: 'Prutter's' tone is offhand; clearly this isn't a new experience for _him_. ::"Y'see the collar? The tattoo inside her left elbow? Means she was a 'comfort woman' – explains why she was so pissed off at us."::

::"A 'comfort wo-' – a _thirteen-year-old girl_ worked as a prostitute?"::

Prutter turns a scornful look on his officer. ::"You make it sound like the fuckin' Redcoats would'a given her a _choice_, sir. Far as they'd'a cared, she was just another _bianca_ to be Reclaimed."::

The _Tenente_ is very, very quiet for a long time. ::"Jesus wept..."::

Another harsh look from the blocky enlisted-man suddenly softens in amazement. ::"Holy _shit_, _Herr Leutnant_ - you're _not_ a Gehennan, are you?"::

His officer shakes his head, clearly wondering what _that's_ got to do with anything. ::"Secular humanist, with a bit of Soren Lutheran from Mom."::

::"Well, fuck me gently with a chainsaw...":: murmurs Prutter, almost reverentially; it takes a moment or two for him to regain his wits. ::"Whatever you do, Herr Leutnant, _don't_ say that in front of anybody else – 'specially Matthias or the fuckin' Redcoats; I dunno if they'd Squad you or just fuckin' kill you. Lotsa ways for '_guerrilleros_' to get people out here, y'scan?":: After a moment, Prutter tips his head at the still-leaking sniper. ::"Meet the poster-child for the Gehennan 'Reclamation', sir. Now, whaddya say we get the fuck outta here and tell the REMFs we want to eat now?"::

The _Tenente_ stands up and turns away from the slain sniper, and the camera gets a good, clear look at his name-tab, insignia, and deeply-troubled face. Kerrigan freezes the picture without orders, then rattles his keyboard for a moment. "I'm running this guy against our database to pull up what we've got, Commander. Most of it'll be FTL intercepts from Virginia."

_Like so much_ else_ of our intelligence about the Pogs,_ Kadishev half-sighs. _They_ know_ we're light-years ahead of them technologically; why the hell do they have such faith in the encryptions on their comms?_ "Throw it up on the main screen, Paul; it should give us a sense for this fellow."

A few seconds later, the SigInt data and compiled dossier appears on one side of the screen – and Mendez blurts out everyone's immediate reaction: "_Yob tvoyu mat'_!"

Kadishev takes a moment to regain his outward composure, even as his mind races. _Holy _Jesus_, talk about your golden opportunities!_ "Joe, get onto the sys-admins at _Faces_ and get them to trim that feed so it ends right after the girl dies. _Nobody_ outside this room sees that conversation – make whatever promises you have to, let _me_ worry about keeping them. Once that's done, get their logs of prior accesses and trace every last one of them; any and every access that came from a Pog protocol-address, trace-and-burn with extreme prejudice. Don't just wipe their drives, _melt_ them. While you're at it, monitor all the Redcoat comm.-channels for chatter about Ferretti – we don't need him getting Squadded. Paul, this goes up the chain _now_ – we might've just found a chance to take the Sorens out of the war. Austin -" this is addressed to A-316 – "- confirm which unit he's attached to, then pass word to every militiaman and _guerrillero_ you can reach in the Nuevo Buenos Aires region: hands off that entire battalion until further notice. Right now, _Tenente_ Antonio Ferretti is worth a _hell_ of a lot more to the Union if he's _breathing_."

- - - - -

_**3. KOMPANIE BIVOUAC  
**__**NUEVO BUENOS AIRES, ENSENADA**_

Bauer almost smiles as Prutter and Ferretti come back through the door in a half-crouch, each with an additional weapon slung over his back. "Got him then, _Herr Leutnant_?"

"Yes." Ferretti's voice is clipped.

Bauer can guess what's behind the flat tone and takes the hint. "I'll get on the horn to Battalion and see about that resupply, then."

"No, I'll do that – in a moment. Before I do, a word?"

"Of course, sir."

Once they've moved into the comm. room, Ferretti lays his 'spare' rifle on the table and gives his acting-sergeant a level look. "So what's _really_ going on with Chief Corporal-Major Matthias?"

"Sir?"

"Don't shit me, Bauer. I took a look at our rooftop OP before we left the sniper's nest – there's no-one there. He shirked an adjunct post, and from some things I wormed out of Prutter on the way back, that's one of his habits. Another is bullying his subordinates and extorting loot out of them. Or am I misinformed?"

_Well,_ crap_ - isn't_ this_ going to be 'fun'?_ "_Herr Leutnant_, how much do you know about us conscripts and our service hitches?"

"Assume I don't know the relevant part."

Bauer sighs and scratches the thin stubble on his jaw, trying to order his thoughts. "The GCC bought our indentures for a set price-per-man, and everybody's trying to pay that off as fast as they can to get an honourable discharge, ship the hell _off_ this planet, go home, and claim their citizenship."

"Or as much 'citizenship' as '_biancos_' can have under us 'wops'," Ferretti notes. The acid he lays on the slang names is... telling.

Bauer swallows carefully. "Something like that, sir. With our pay-rates, the time-in-service is about two years – less, if we pick up a couple of promotions, or maybe some really prize loot to sell to the supply-types."

"And Matthias is so keen to buy himself out early that he hoards all the 'prize loot'."

"Yes, sir. He intimidates or beats other men into performing his duties – especially if they'd put him in harm's way – and he's the one who handles distribution of whatever loot the company takes. And _Herr Leutnant_, four men who've crossed him have died in very convenient '_guerrillero_ attacks' – not to mention _Sotto-Tenente_ Gellrich, who 'had some bad luck' during the last push we made."

"Did Captain Petrelli or the company Redcoats know about this?"

Bauer gives his new officer a thin, humourless smile. "_Herr Leutnant_, the Captain was taking a cut of the action so he could buy a Major's crowns, and the Redcoats didn't mind _what_ Matthias did as long as the troops did what he told them. Hell, the only reason I was 'in charge' when you arrived was because Matthias didn't want a job that would get him killed by a real _guerrillero_."

"And you couldn't do anything about this? Officially... or otherwise?"

"I'm only an E-4 myself, sir – I don't have the rank or the authority to do anything about him through channels, and if I tried, I'd be the next one to get my potatoes mashed. Besides, even with Petrelli and the Commissioners gone, we've got Matthias' partner at Supply to worry about. Colonel Valenza's got access to all our records, and if Matthias got it from a _guerrillero_ – real or otherwise – Valenza'd wipe our indenture-balances back to zero and Squad all our families back home. Hell, _he's_ the real problem."

Ferretti considers this for a moment or two... then suddenly breaks into a crooked, thoughtful smirk.

- - - - -

Fifteen minutes later, Ferretti takes a spot on the ex-bookstore's staircase, which leads up to what used to be a trendy café, while the non-coms assemble the remnants of 3. _Kompanie_ in the open area below.

"At ease!" Bauer barks.

With everyone's attention on him, Ferretti has reassumed his usual manner of calm assurance. He doesn't realise how much of a striking change it makes to the majority of their officers - especially the strutting self-importance of the unlamented Captain Petrelli. "Okay, listen up! As of ten-hundred today, Twenty-Third Soren Field Army's being relieved by Seventeenth Titanian and taken off the line for refit. That means those trucks and half-tracks we're expecting will be dropping off fresh meat and taking 3. _Kompanie_ back to the airfield, where we'll rejoin the rest of I. _Bataillon_."

There's a general ripple of relief at that - but the inevitable humourist's mutter to his buddy is a little louder than he intended. "Is it me, or does he not look thrilled by that idea?"

Bauer doesn't miss a beat. "Thanks for volunteering for latrine duty, Ölsner."

"Ah, _shit_," the comedian groans.

"Exactly."

Ferretti lets the laughter go for a moment before speaking sternly – though through a thin smile. "Settle _down_, lads. We should be getting replacement personnel and equipment soon after we arrive – emphasis on 'should'. Things are pretty SNAFU out there, but as your commanding officer, I'm going to do my damnedest to make it happen."

He pauses a moment, then continues in a more sombre tone. "Which brings me to another matter. While I'm your commanding officer, I'm also the company's _only_ officer right now, which means we're in kind'a _interesting_ territory. Here's how it is:

"At the moment, this company doesn't have any Royal Commissioners, which means enforcing 'discipline' falls to me and me alone - an individual who is at once an ethnic Salernan, an officer in GCC (Ground), and an _aristocrat_. In case anyone needs the reminder, any one of those things means that under both Royal law and GCC regulations, I can shoot any non-Salernan trooper dead, at any time or place I choose, just because I feel like it, and the worst they can do to me is exact a five-hundred-crown _weregeld_." After a moment's bleak silence, he continues, "I have that sanction, but I'd prefer never to _use_ it, so I'm going to set some ground rules.

"Obey all orders given by myself or the company non-coms, not to mention your platoon officers when we get them again. If you think they or we're missing something when we make a decision, speak up – but once you've said what needs saying and the decision's been made, _shut up and soldier_.

"I will not tolerate abuse of civilians, prisoners-of-war, or your subordinates. I know it's hard to tell the difference between civilians and _guerrilleros_ before the shooting starts; all the same, any man who willfully and needlessly harms an unarmed civilian, a prisoner, or a trooper under his command outside of dire combat exigency _will be shot out of hand_.

"There will be no looting of civilian goods." This produces a few mutters. "This is a company of Soren infantry, not a pack of Dalton sky-pirates. You're free to scrounge whatever military gear you need from prisoners or casualties; anything of military value that you don't want or can't use, turn it in to Sergeant Bauer for the company inventory or sell it to me – but you can sell _only_ to me. Don't worry, I'll give you a fair price. Anything of intelligence value comes to me; I'll check it out and see if the REMFs want it, and if it's worth anything to them, I'll make it worth something to you. You'll probably swipe jewelry and such off casualties and prisoners no matter what I say, but you _will_ leave them their ID-tags, their wedding rings, and personal items like pictures of their families. If you're tired of the issued rations and want better from a civilian, pay them what they ask, cash-in-full, or go without; anyone who steals from civvies – or a fellow trooper – will be in a penal battalion by dawn."

He stops speaking for a moment, then smiles amiably. "Three simple rules, really: do what you're told; don't hurt anyone who isn't shooting at you; scrounge, don't loot. Other than that, do the job the best you can. Platoon non-coms, see to your men. Dismissed!"

As the non-coms start barking orders, Ferretti descends to ground level and stops two of them. "Chief Corporal-Major Matthias, you're with me. Corporal Tikki, you have Charlie Platoon for the moment."

"Sir!" "Sir!"

Matthias is a lantern-jawed fellow, taller than Ferretti; his uniform's better-quality and less-worn than it should be, and it doesn't look like he's missed too many meals. Ferretti leads him into the makeshift CP, but instead of speaking, he picks up the ammo-tin holding the company's paperwork and looks through it silently. A minute passes. Two. After the third, Matthias clears his throat, and Ferretti looks up again, feigning startlement. "Oh. Sorry, Chief – just realised how much paperwork I've got to catch up on before the relief. You know how the paperwork gets, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Figured you would. Can you show me the Charlie platoon area?"

"Of course, sir."

When they get there, Matthias' eyes go shock-wide: two sullen troopers - his chosen cronies - are sitting against the wall with their hands bound and G47s aimed at their faces, and Bauer's leading four men in an inventory of Matthias' rucksack – and his loot! But even as he opens his mouth to protest, he's silenced – by Tikki's rifle screwing itself into his flank.

"How does it look, Bauer?"

"Lots of high-end portable gear, sir – he always shipped the bigger stuff straight back to his buddy-boy at Regiment whenever he could. Nice collection of Ensie electronics, though: 'phones, pocket-secretaries, chip-players, rifle-scopes – _hello_!" Bauer's smile turns downright feral as he holds up a set of binoculars: Svobodan-made night-vision electro-optics, compact yet powerful. "I _wondered_ where these went. You didn't even scrape off Petrelli's _name_, you stupid bastard!"

"And _that's_ music to my ears," Ferretti says coldly, stepping past the black-marketeer to inspect the array of gear and toys. After a moment, he picks up a pistol and unholsters it for inspection. "_Sergeant-Major_ Bauer, those scopes go to Raikinnen, Davies and Prutter; if there're any more, give 'em to whichever marksmen you see fit. Hang onto the binoculars until I've talked to the Supply types; if I don't need 'em, we'll ship 'em back to Captain Petrelli's family with the rest of his gear."

Ignoring Bauer's startled expression, the _Tenente_ looks back to their captive. "As for you, _Private_ –"

Matthias goes pasty white. People often do that when abruptly presented with the muzzle of a Browning Hi-Power.

After several silent moments, the pistol drops back to Ferretti's side. "Much as I'd dearly love to shoot you outright for the men of this company that you've murdered, I won't do it without _proof_. But those binocs were the private property of an officer, and you've got them without authorisation, which means they're enough to put you in a penal battalion for the next three years. Assuming the Ensies or Petrelli's _Famiglia_ don't get to you first."

Riding survival-relief and adrenaline, Matthias musters some bravado of his own. "I'll be back by this time tomorrow, '_Herr Leutnant_'. And _you_ just made the list, Bauer!"

Though it scarcely seems possible, Ferretti's already wintry manner hardens _further_. "If you _really_ think Colonel Valenza's actually going to save your overpriced skin, go right ahead and hold your breath... but he's about to have troubles of his own." Even as Matthias' face falls again, the _Tenente_ nods past him. "Tikki, he's all yours."

As the abruptly-demoted prisoner is led away, Ferretti turns to the two cronies. "I don't know how _much_ of his little standover racket you were involved in, but I've got lots of witnesses to that involvement. I'm transferring both of your worthless asses back to a logistical unit as fetch-and-carry boys. That means no front-line allowances, no chances for promotion, and no privilege to bear arms – despite the raging hard-on the _guerrilleros_ have for shooting up our rear-areas. And your current indenture balances are _forfeit_; they'll be going to the families of the men Matthias fragged as part of the _weregeld_ I'll be paying. Get 'em out of my sight."

Häkämies and Prutter haul the detainees to their feet and shove them into motion with their rifle-butts. One of the detainees manages to stop by the doorway, giving Ferretti a half-pleading, half-outraged look. "You can't _do_ this, sir!"

Ferretti's face seems carved from Svobodan permafrost.

"He's a _wop_, you stupid fuck – he can do whatever he _likes_," Prutter assures the supplicant, prodding him along again. "Where the fuck have _you_ been since they invaded Soren?"


End file.
